Remedy
by Cybertronprincess
Summary: That glittery smile didn't fade – he was sure those lips were coated in some kind of glossy wax – even as he giggled at Slag's silence and leaned forward a bit, raising his voice to be heard over the music. "Name's Fireflight. What's yours?"


The smell of alcohol and dry ice filled his olfactory sensor, strobe and neon lights flashing in his optics and music booming in his audials. Slag really had no one to blame but himself, choosing the seat at the bar closest to the speakers and smoke machine. He took another lengthy sip of rocket fuel, seriously considering leaving, whether Grimlock was ready or not. He looked over to the private booths at the back of the club, but could see little more than wriggling silhouettes through the coloured, smoky glass. He rolled his optics, and decided firmly that Snarl would be their brother's "wing man" next weekend. His antisocial younger sibling needed a bit of interpersonal contact anyhow, constantly having his nose stuck in a book and ear phones blocking out any and all conversation. Slag rubbed his face, the metal heating up uncomfortably from the glaring lights. He checked his watch; 02:17 local time. He'd been sitting there for just over four hours now, gotten through twelve drinks and only felt a slight buzz in his processor. What annoyed him more was that he hadn't even budged in that time, begrudgingly waiting for Grimlock but too stubborn to dance. Besides, it would look ridiculous; an enormous mech like him dancing to club music. He scoffed at the thought and downed the rest of the fuel, then reached into his pocket and pulled out some change, dropping it into the tip jar. He lifted himself out of his seat with every intention of wading through the sea of mechs, femmes and other model types to the exit and ridding himself of this damn place.

Frag Grimlock.

The next song clicked on through the speakers, and it occurred to him that some cheap floozy was actually doing just that. He sighed frustratedly, imaging Swoop's furious expression if he returned home alone. They all knew very well all this clubbing and the one night stands were Grimlock's way of dealing with the break up, and they all swore to take responsibility for him. Swoop and Sludge had even been taking the Technobots to school and getting them dinner, the brontosaurus putting his weekly pay into buying their five nephews what they wanted or needed. Snarl had dropped out of his college in favour of getting his own job, using his earned cash to pay the bills Grimlock no longer could, having lost _his_ livelihood through lack of actually turning up at the docks.

And Slag... Slag had been driving Grimlock around, taking him out and helping his brother deal with the emotional and psychological breakdown he was going through as best he could. And if dragging him out of a bar at the end of every week, drunk as a sailor in order to drown out his sorrows, was necessary to keep him from going into a depressed frenzy, so be it. He was the second eldest, and that meant he had to take care of Grimlock where his brother would've taken care of him. His brother had made sacrifices an uncountable amount times to make sure he and their younger brothers had what they needed, not once considering himself. For a while, he was happy. She made him happy, fully accepting that he dedicated his existence to his family; his brothers and sons, and supporting him as much as she could. Somewhere along the line, Grimlock began devoting himself to her as well, gradually getting closer and closer to what could only be called a happily ever after. An ending, Slag believed, his brother deserved. But it didn't turn out that way, and the thought of that treacherous trollop now made him want to vomit. She'd stomped on his brother's heart, making his strained mind finally crumble, leaving him with... _this._

Slag sat back down, elbow on the bar, looking back at the booths guiltily. As much as he hated it, he couldn't bring himself to walk away like that. His brother needed him, and Grimlock had always been there for him when Slag needed that supportive ground. He rubbed his forehead tiredly, then glared accusingly at the crowd. Eventually, this had to come to a stop. If Grimlock didn't put a halt to it, he'd have to do it for him. Maybe he could get him counselling with that friend of Swoop's – Smokescreen, was it? – or sign him up for some kind of speed dating service. His brow furrowed; what would their parents do at a time like this? Ratchet was rough around the edges, but was very good at dealing with terminally depressed bots, a deeply compassionate and sweet mech. Wheeljack was less competent than their mother, but he'd always known how to make everyone laugh. That would've helped. It would have. Again, the music clicked to the next song, a techno run-up beat drilling into his processor. It was too loud in here to be thinking too hard. It was hard for Slag to think most of the time!

_I can see you stalking like a predator, I've been here before,  
Temptation calls like Adam to the apple but I will not be caught,  
'Cause I can read those velvet eyes and all I see is lies,_

Half-consciously, Slag noted that this song was vaguely familiar. Probably something he'd heard Afterburner playing in his room. In a somewhat random bout of curiosity, Slag looked up at the crowd, watching as the dancers all jived and swung their hips to the music. It was rather impressive, and Slag knew he could never hope to move that elegantly. Then, he noticed a small white and red mech through the crowd. He was a flier, by all appearances; sharp wings and lusty curves, not to mentioned delicate looking servos and pedes. Slag found himself... unwilling to look away from him. Somehow, he seemed interesting.

_No more poison killing my emotion,  
I will not be frozen, dancing is my remedy, remedy, oh,  
Stop, stop praying 'cause I'm not not playing,  
I'm not frozen, dancing is my remedy, remedy, oh,_

Slag snickered at the irony of the lyrics; they reflected Grimlock's situation rather well. The flier's elbows pressed against his sides, fists shaking up and down, then his arms flicked out either side, hip cocking and right leg stepping out. His outstretched arms floated out in front him, then snapped back against his chest and into the air above his head, pede coming back in and sliding with the other. He spun around, snapping his right arm out to the side, then back in, then doing the same with the left. This time, his servos went to his hips and he paused, then twisted around without moving his pedes, shooting Slag a bright, sunny smile right across the floor. Slag jumped, jolting back against the bar, optics darting away for a fraction of a second, then back again.

_Move while you're watching me, dance with the enemy,  
I've got a remedy oh, uh, oh, uh, oh,  
Move while you're watching me, dance with the enemy,  
Here is my remedy oh, uh, oh, uh, oh,_

He twirl-jumped in the air, facing Slag again, then clapped his hands and slid to the side with a cute little grin on his face. His right arm then shot upwards vertically, left arm straight to the side as he slid back again. His red and white arms folded against him again, doing a quick spin before bending in a bow at the hip with his pedes apart, right servo on his hip, left reaching for the floor, only to lean right back with his left hand reaching for the ceiling. That servo snapped back down on his other hip, standing up straight with a ruffled smile on his face. He had very wide, bright blue optics.

_Spin me faster like a kaleidoscope, all I've got's the floor,  
Yeah, you can try but I've found the antidote, music is the cure,  
So you can try to paralyse but I know best this time,_

_No more poison killing my emotion,  
I will not be frozen, dancing is my remedy, remedy, oh,  
Stop stop praying 'cause I'm not not playing,  
I'm not frozen, dancing is my remedy, remedy, oh,_

_Move while you're watching me, dance with the enemy,  
I've got a remedy oh, uh, oh, uh, oh,  
Move while you're watching me, dance with the enemy,  
Here is my remedy oh, uh, oh, uh, oh,_

The flier pointed at Slag, then relaxed his posture. The triceratops sighed, then realised with a start that the little bot was walking over. A thousand thoughts ran through his head, but he couldn't make sense of any of them. Maybe that was the rocket fuel, or maybe the loud music. It didn't matter, all he managed to do was grip his seat at the exact moment the flier stepped in front of him, fists on his tasty, cocked hips, confident smile on his white lips. He wore a blue tank top beneath a light, denim jacket with no sleeves, dark jeans hugging his hips rather loosely, a black leather belt holding them in place with an Autobot insignia buckle. He noted the bright red Converse shoes on his pedes and head phones around his neck, then wondered why on Cybertron he was absorbing every little detail about this bot. That glittery smile didn't fade – he was sure those lips were coated in some kind of glossy wax – even as he giggled at Slag's silence and leaned forward a bit, raising his voice to be heard over the music. "Name's Fireflight. What's yours?"

_Da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da,  
Da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da,_

And when the music fades away I know I'll be okay,  
Contagious rhythms in my brain, let it play,

Slag licked his upper lip, glancing once again towards the booths, then back to Fireflight. He had a friendly smile, and a cheerful glow in his optics, waiting patiently for an answer. Should he give him one? A good pick-pocketing gold digger held an affable façade until the very last moment; Grimlock's ex was a good example of that. But, – perhaps due to the rocket fuel, once again – Slag's words were dropping out his lips without him thinking about them. "I'm... Slag. Nice dancing." Fireflight grinned wider, stuffing his servos in his pockets.

"Can I sit with you?," He asked politely. Slag's brow furrowed for a moment, glancing and discovering there was actually an empty seat beside him. He glared at it for a moment, then looked up at Fireflight and nodded once. The flier grinned, hopping onto the swivelling, backless stool and letting himself make a 360 turn, then placed his pedes on the floor and looked up at Slag smiling again.

"Can I buy you a drink?," Slag offered without really thinking. When Fireflight said yes, he reached for his wallet to make sure he actually had credits handy. Thankfully, the money sat there, just screaming; 'You're welcome Slag. You're freaking welcome.' He didn't ask for anything overly glorified or expensive, nor that alcoholic. Just asked for a simple mid grade, happily sipping it and sighing in satisfaction.

"You here for any reason?," He asked, smiling still. Slag noted how that smile had a particular gleam to it; like it was well polished glass no one dared to get finger prints on. He ordered another barrel of rocket fuel, taking a swig before shrugging his shoulders and _then_ paying the bar tender, who gave him a spiteful look for that cheek.

_No more poison killing my emotion,  
I will not be frozen, dancing is my remedy, remedy, oh,  
Stop, stop praying 'cause I'm not not playing,  
I'm not frozen, dancing is my remedy, remedy, oh,_

Move while you're watching me, dance with the enemy,  
I've got a remedy oh, uh, oh, uh, oh,  
Move while you're watching me, dance with the enemy,  
Here is my remedy oh, uh, oh, uh, oh,

"I'm my brother's ride home after he's finished up in the booths," He replied. Fireflight blinked in surprise, his smile falling in place of a concerned frown. Slag smirked and leaned over to him. "Don't worry; he won't remember the taxi driver's face plates," The flier laughed cheerfully, throwing his head back and twisting on the stool a bit. Slag made a puzzled smile; he wasn't _that_ funny, was he? "What about you? Just dancing, or what?," Fireflight grinned and shrugged.

"Dancing, socialising... just generally having a good time without my brothers," He took another sip of mid grade, licking his lips. "Why don't you dance too, while you're waiting for your brother?," Slag hacked into the container, choking slightly on his rocket fuel. He faintly noticed Fireflight was patting and rubbing his back, before tossing his head back and laughing.

"Me, dance?," He cackled, slapping the surface of the bar, causing each and every drink to jump and vibrate. "That's a good one," He took another slug of rocket fuel, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I'm not really the dancing type."

"Everyone's the dancing type! You just have to find the right kind of music; that's what my friend Blaster always says, anyway," The flier clutched his hands in his thighs, smiling brightly again. A peppy, sweet little mech, happily conversing with a gruff, violent thug without a care in the world. Slag would've thought it adorable – _did _think it adorable – if it weren't obvious how naïve the kid was. He looked around the room; as he expected, several tall mechs, bigger than Fireflight but midgets compared to Slag, were glaring in their direction with envious optics. So many unpleasant, doubtlessly femme-beating bastards, drooling over tiny, cute little Fireflight. And the jet probably wasn't even aware of it.

"You're a nice kid," Slag muttered, nudging him with his elbow. "But what exactly did you think you'd gain by coming over and talking to me?," Fireflight frowned slightly, taken aback by the cold comment. He'd probably have been disappointed to know Slag usually made jabs like that.

"Someone to talk to, I suppose?," He shrugged, quickly smiling again. That bugged him; why was he smiling so much? "You didn't seem like a bad mech, so why not, y'know?"

"No, I don't know, really," He shot a venomous warning glare at a mech who was stalking closer, orange optics set carnally on Fireflight. He may not have been a soft and fluffy mech, but he wouldn't stand for some jerk messing a kid around. "Can't think where you got that idea from."

"Why? Are you a bad person, Slag?," He glanced down at Fireflight, who was giving him a cheeky grin. He smirked and leant closer.

"Oh, I'm the _worst_ kind of bot; stealing candy from protoforms, that kind of thing," He winked, making the jet giggle, clutching his fist to his chin. Slag sat up straight, chuckling to himself and finishing off his rocket fuel, when a familiar sight caught the corner of his optic. Grimlock staggered out of the booth, holding his head, reaching to brace one hand against the wall. Unfortunately, he missed, falling to the ground, groaning his brother's name drunkenly.

"Scrap." He hissed, getting to his pedes.

_Move while you're watching me, dance with the enemy,  
I've got a remedy oh, uh, oh, uh, oh,_

_Move while you're watching me, dance with the enemy,  
Here is my remedy oh, uh, oh, uh, oh._

To his surprise, Fireflight scampered after him as he jogged over to Grimlock, falling to one knee beside his prone body. "Grimlock? Can you hear me?," His brother groaned tiredly, raising his head but then letting it drop again to the floor.

"Slag... why isn't Lightspeed doing his chores yet? The cat said he's been playing video games and drinking bleach all afternoon," Slag stared blankly for a moment, then grunted and reached for his brother, pulling his arm over his shoulder.

"W-will he be okay?," Fireflight asked nervously, clutching his hands together in front of his chest. Slag glanced at him, then nodded, pulling Grimlock up to his feet, for all the good it did.

"He'll be fine. But he'll have one fragging hangover in the morning," He grumbled, beginning to walk to the door.

"Do you need any help?," Fireflight offered, taking a step after them. The triceratops looked over his shoulder at the kid, watching those blue optics cloud over with concern. He frowned, pausing as he considered his options, then sighed in defeat.

"Could you grab his jacket for me? That black one there," Fireflight did as he was asked, taking Grimlock's leather jacket from the now empty booth, which reeked of the stench of what could of just been tabaco, but was probably something worse. He then scurried around Grimlock's side, looping his opposite arm over his tiny shoulders, helping Slag drag him out of the club. The cold city air was intensified by the rain. Slag called a cab, not feeling sober enough to drive himself after all. Fireflight helped him stuff Grimlock into the back of the taxi, covering the tyrannosaurus with his jacket. "Thanks kid, I appreciate it."

"No problem," The jet grinned, hugging himself and shivering with the rain. Slag frowned, then removed his own jacket and plonked it over Fireflight's shoulders, flipping the fur rimmed hood over his head. "Ah, what-?,"

"Won't do to let you freeze," He glanced around, noticing several of the mechs that had been glaring at him had followed them outside. He glared at them again, all of them scrambling back inside the club at once. He then reach for his wallet – in his back pocket – and pulled out some credits, stuffing them into Fireflight's hand. "I'll call a cab for you. Go home, kid; do yourself a favour."

"Got it," The jet smiled, pushing the hood up slightly so he could see Slag. "Can I get your comm number, so I can return your coat?," He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and read out the numbers for him.

"Have a good one, kid," He said once he'd called for a second cab, patting Fireflight's helm. The younger mech grinned and nodded.

"You too; hope he'll be alright!," Slag climbed into the cab next to Grimlock's unconscious form, waving and shutting the door.

"Where to?," The driver asked, leaning back over the seat.

"Vos, Omicron road, house forty eight. Drive."

* * *

.X.

* * *

The sound of his comm going off startled him so much, he actually dropped the remote. His servo snapped up, answering the call with great annoyance. "Hello?," He growled spitefully.

/:/Hello, Slag?,/:/ A nervous voice replied. /:/Is this a bad time? I-it's Fireflight, we met at the Dancitron the other night?/:/

"Oh...," Slag glanced over to wear Snarl was sitting on the couch, reading. Of course, he was peeking over the top of his book, watching silently like the creeper he was. The triceratops gave him a threatening glare, and the stegosaurus slowly slid back into his story. "Yes, I remember," He said, getting out of the arm chair and walking into the next room. "Sorry, kind of tired."

/:/I can call back later if you like,/:/ He offered.

"No, no. What can I do for you?," He asked, taking a toy off the top shelf for Scattershot who couldn't quite reach. His nephew beamed at him, then ran off upstairs.

/:/Well, I was wondering if you were free to meet up somewhere, so I could return your jacket? Thought maybe we could have a chat or something!,/:/ Slag paused. He couldn't see Fireflight, but could still imagine that cheerful, friendly smile from the other night. Even in his settling-hangover state, that smile was bright in his memory. He briefly wondered why that would be.

"Sure, where and when?"

An hour later, he found himself sitting in a café, digits drumming on the table top as he waited for Fireflight to turn up. He'd bought himself some premium fuel; the cup half empty and the contents slowly getting cold. Finally, the familiar form of the little jet he'd met at the club jumped through the door wearing a pale green hoodie, acid washed jeans with holes in the knees and black trainers peeking out from under the baggy leggings. Slag's jacket was neatly folded in his arms, braced against his chest plate as he looked around, searching for Slag. The triceratops raised his arm, waving to catch Fireflight's attention. The jet grinned at the sight him, scurrying over and sitting in the opposite chair.

"Hi, how are you?," He smiled merrily. "Here's your jacket," He placed it on the table, sliding it towards him. Slag took it, letting it sit in his lap.

"Hey kid," He nodded. "Want me to buy you anything?"

"No thanks, I have my own credits," He turned in his seat, then waved to the pink and orange femme behind the counter. "The usual please, Rosanna!," She looked up, then smiled and nodded at him, turning to grab a foam cup. Fireflight looked back at Slag. "I come here a lot with my friend, Bluestreak," He explained. The next hour and a half, they chatted. Well, that was a bit of a stretch; Slag wasn't one for small talk, so he kept quiet and simply listened to Fireflight chatter. Now that there wasn't loud music blaring in his audials, he could actually hear the kid's voice properly. It was a nice sound; sweet and bouncy.

Where Slag was reserved and quiet, Fireflight was a chatterbox. He talked about his four older brothers; one who worked as a librarian, one in college, and the other two who were currently unemployed and apparently sitting at home bickering and being useless. Fireflight had a job at the newsagent's; either delivering papers or taking stock. He was seventeen gigacycles, and liked going out clubbing either on his own, with one or more of his menagerie of friends, or his brothers. "So what about you?," He asked, propping his chin on his hands. Slag raised an optic brow.

"Hm?"

"You. Tell me about you! That mech we helped out of the club was your brother, right? What's he like?," He seemed genuinely interested, eyes wide and attentive. Slag wasn't sure how to go about this; he swallowed slowly and licked his lips.

"Well... he's a good mech. Strong, generous, can be full of himself, but we grant him that pleasure. Otherwise, he hardly ever thinks of himself. He's been through a rough break up recently, hence why he was drunk out of his mind the other night," Fireflight sat up straight, looking worried.

"That's terrible! I'm sorry to hear that."

"She was a bitch – uh, sorry, didn't mean to swear."

"It's okay, I swear heaps," The jet grinned, leaning forward with his wrists clamped gently between his knees. Slag smiled, nodding. "What else?"

"Hrm, he has five sons. Real good kids, all really smart, do great in school. She wasn't their mum, but they're suffering the most out of all of us," He shook his helm. Fireflight frowned sympathetically, shoulders slumping a bit. "Uh, let's see. Grimlock's oldest, then there's me, then our brother Sludge – dumbest mech you will _ever_ meet, but also the sweetest – then there's Snarl – he's a weird, emo bookworm, his spark's in the right place though – and our youngest brother Swoop – who's training to be a doctor."

"Wow, a doctor? Really?"

"Yup; he's always been tons smarter than the rest of us. He's modest about it though," Slag leant back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling. "We're mostly trying to get Grimlock through this depression of his, for the kids' sake."

"How long has it been going on?"

"'Bout two months now. Ain't heard from that bitch in that long, thankfully," Fireflight reached over the table, patting Slag's wrist, though the triceratops' arms were crossed over his chest.

"I'm sorry," He said. "If you need someone to talk to...!," Slag stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable by acquaintance's standards. He then snickered, smirking and shutting his optics.

"Appreciate it kid, but can't believe a nice bot like you is willing to get involved in the business of some stranger he met in a club," He chuckled. "I told you; I'm not a 'good mech'."

"Can't believe you're a bad mech, either," Fireflight retorted, leaning back in his seat, folding his arms and grinning smugly. Slag raised an optic ridge, smirking again. This kid... was growing on him.

"Well, if you say so," Slag stood up, dropping the credits for the drink on the table. Fireflight looked up.

"You off?"

"Yeah, gotta pick up Grimlock's eldest from school in about twenty minutes," The jet smiled and stood up bouncily, folding his arms behind his back.

"See; you _are_ a good mech. You're looking after your brother and his kids when he can't do it himself; a _bad_ mech would never do something like that," Slag blinked, bewildered and intrigued by the kid's forthright observation. Fireflight placed his own credits on the table and held out his hand. "It's been very nice talking with you, Slag." The triceratops nodded, gently taking his servo and shaking it.

"Same to you," The jet then retracted his hand, flashed him another smile, then literally _skipped _out of the café. Slag watched him go, then unfolded his jacket and pulled it on.

As he walked out into the cold autumn air, he unconsciously stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. His brow furrowed when he felt something thin brush against his fingers. Pulling it out, he found it was a small, folded piece of paper. Puzzled, he opened it to find a comm link number written in purple ink, as well as a little cartoon face doodled in the corner, flashing a peace sign and sticking its tongue out.

_'Here if you need a friend- Fireflight.'_

Slag grinned wide and bright at the piece of paper, chuckling to himself. "Cheeky kid." He nodded, putting the note back in his pocket and wandering off towards Nosecone's school.


End file.
